


i want the window seat but don't leave

by shortlock



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Introspection, M/M, Post-Time Skip, kagehina if you squint like a grandfather, pumpkin pies + a 1960s camera + kissing in the sunset, this was... so self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29896239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortlock/pseuds/shortlock
Summary: The setter pulls away from Hinata, albeit gently and calmly. He jerks a thumb in Sakusa’s direction, a fox-shitting grin growing on his face. “That’s okay, I’ll ride Omi-kun.” A pause. Bokuto raises his eyebrows. Atsumu screeches. “I MEANT I’LL RIDEWITHOMI-KUN, SHIT, I DIDN’T MEAN THAT, IT JUST CAME OUT, SHUT UP, SHOYO-”Hinata, through his boundless giggles, attempts to console Atsumu while Bokuto laughs breathily, slapping Atsumu’s back with a drum of, “GOOD ONE, TSUM-TSUM!”Sakusa face-palms. He hadn’t asked to be born.or: kiyoomi's process of falling in love with miya atsumu, golden boy extraordinaire and a complete bastard.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 197





	i want the window seat but don't leave

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to pine, my english essay over sophocles' _oedipus the king,_ and my two end-of-course exams tomorrow morning at seven thirty.

“TSUM-TSUM, YOU’RE FINALLY HERE!”

Sakusa watches as Atsumu hesitantly waves with his unwrapped hand from the sidelines, and upon hearing Bokuto’s insanely boisterous call, Hinata’s head shoots up from behind the cart of volleyballs from the center of the gymnasium. His eyes enlarge once they settle on Atsumu, and he runs past Meian to throw himself onto the setter, arms wrapping around his neck tightly in a hug.

“Atsumu-san, you’re alive, I’m so sorry, please forgive me-” he pleads, face scrunched up in what seems to look like he’s holding back tears. Or perhaps that’s Atsumu, given the pained expression on his face. Hinata’s entire body-weight is pressing on Atsumu’s cast-covered arm - and while it may not be that much, it’s still something - and Atsumu visibly winces. Hinata’s quick to notice his mistake though, and immediately lets go, shuffling to his own feet and bowing his head, the waves of his undercut falling in front of his eyes. “Atsumu-san, I’m sorry, I really am, it was an-”

Sakusa has absolutely no idea why the fierce spiker is apologizing so solemnly and rapidly to Atsumu, who most probably  _ deserves _ the fractured arm, yet everyone’s attention is fixed on the two, so he observes as well. Atsumu’s wearing his Inarizaki sweatshirt and trackpants, and he’s ruffling Hinata’s hair just like he does so every morning. 

“Don’t worry about it, Shoyo-kun. I’m perfect as always,” he laughs with a breezy smile, as if his earlier discomfort was never there, and honest-to-god  _ winks _ at the sunshine boy. “Not yer fault, ‘kay? So don’t go apologizing to me anymore.”

Hinata nods and jumps in place, finally free of worry and guilt. Meian steps forward, concern etched on his face and eyeing the cast. “How long do you have to keep that on?”

Atsumu brings his free hand to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “At least seven weeks, Captain. Sorry.” 

Sakusa leans down to pick up the fallen volleyball, then spins it in his palms, gaze flitting from the cast Atsumu’s wearing to his own wrist. What’s a volleyball player without their hands? More importantly, what’s a setter without his hands? He’s always taken extra precautions of his minor injuries as a player; he supposes Atsumu should have done the same. The most that’s ever happened to him was a sprained ankle back in junior high. 

He hears footsteps near him, and he raises his eyes to meet Atsumu’s sweetened ones, Hinata now latched onto Bokuto’s arm murmuring something quietly. The dyed tips of Atsumu’s hair fall lazily to frame his face, but he makes no effort to push them away. Sakusa knew that when he’d be joining the MSBY Black Jackals, he’d have to play alongside their first-string setter straight out of high school, Miya Atsumu. He hasn’t seen him since the national semi-finals in third year, yet he can’t say much has changed: Atsumu’s still his carefree and irritating self. 

“This is Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Meian introduces once he notices the two staring at each other as if they’re really rivals rather than teammates. Atsumu tilts his head with a knowing twinkle in his grin, and Sakusa has half a mind to punch it. He’s literally just re-met the guy and he’s already coming up with vicious attacks against him; wonderful. “We signed him just three days ago. It’s a shame you had to fracture your arm at this time, Atsumu. I was hoping we could get you and him to practice together for his debut match in a month.” 

He remembers the last time he had been under Atsumu’s glare, Sakusa had just hit a cross-shot strong enough to break past all three of their blockers, effectively claiming the silver medal of nationals for Itachiyama. Atsumu had crumbled to fine dust, tears wrecking his cheeks, while Sakusa felt his world look brighter than usual. He can’t quite get the memory out of his mind, and four years later, he still feels like Atsumu will either shred himself to fragments or laugh until every god in the world has fallen. 

What was this jerk’s problem? He still hasn’t said anything to him, instead standing there like a fucking idiot, so Sakusa huffs out a stiff, “What?”

Atsumu blinks, then shrugs listlessly. “Oh, ya’ speak. Nothin’, I was just wonderin’ if Coach hired a Greek statue and placed it in the gym to act as a player.”

What the fuck. “A Greek statue?”

The setter ignores his reply, spinning on his heel and stepping towards the back of the bleachers, idly kicking a stray ball on his way out. Bokuto and Hinata, with their shared enthusiasm, pester Meian into continuing practice, as if they weren’t all professional athletes who were about to do just that. Inunaki motions for Sakusa to attempt another jump-serve, and the spiker has no issue in imagining Miya Atsumu’s face as his target.

Inunaki gets nowhere in receiving his marks.

* * *

He hears Atsumu’s muffled sobs before he sees him punch the gymnasium’s wall forcibly, pulling back to take a shaky breath just to repeat the process. He glances through the ajared door, eyebrows twitching as he sees Atsumu mutter incoherently under his heavy breathing, surrounded by littered balls and the thick smell of sweat and metal. He attacks the wall once more, twice more, not even caring for the amount of pressure he’s laying on his injury. A bead of blood drops to the floor, and Sakusa truly doesn’t want to get into the middle of this. 

“Are you trying to fracture your other hand as well, Miya?”

Atsumu barely flinches from the sound of his presence. Instead, he spins so his back is against the wall, then falls down, outstretching his legs. He looks up at Sakusa with reddened eyes and tear-stains on his cheeks; his hair’s a disaster worthy to rival the Titan War, but it’s nothing compared to the Trojan War blood and scratches on his palm and knuckles. Confusion and irritation dance around in his chest, yet Sakusa steps into the gym; even his facemask isn’t enough to block out the stench accompanying his favorite sport. 

“Hey, Omi-kun.” His voice is raspy and barely above a whisper, and it almost sounds as if he’s speaking in a language other than Japanese. Atsumu’s always been arrogant, insulting, and daunting to a fault - here, he looks so utterly ruined and defeated that, for a brief second, uneasiness swarms over him like the flood that ran through Thebes. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” is what he settles for, hands fisted inside his pockets. 

“I was just practicing, no worries.” 

He very pointedly looks at Atsumu’s ripped-open knuckles. “Yes, practicing. May I ask why, as you are currently benched?” He doesn’t mean it to sound condescending in any way, but of course Atsumu assumes the worst from everyone but himself. 

“Will everyone just shut up about me being  _ benched?” _ He says sharply, eyes firing up, and he forces himself to stand up; he sways. “First ‘Samu, now ya’? Listen, I ain’t off the team or somethin’. I’m just… restin’ or some shit, since I can’t set like I used to. I’m  _ fine _ so ya’ can stop with yer creepy judgemental looks.” 

Atsumu is Icarus, the type to deliberately hurt himself if it means he’ll get stronger. He’ll cut and bleed his scarred skin, break and grind his hardened bones, yet he won’t quit until he reaches the best. He’s constantly aiming for what he cannot and will not ever have, but he believes he’ll get it; his faith is never stronger than fate. He’s destined to let volleyball - the one dream he’s held onto since childhood - be the death of him, and he’s fully prepared to let it happen so. One day, he’s going to fall to the ground with charred feathers, the smell of sweat and ash in his hair, and bloodied knuckles from when he fruitfully tried to fight the sun. Yet here he lies, defeated, destroyed even though Daedalus warned him not to. 

“This isn’t resting. This is you furthering your injury, which will only prove detrimental to the team.” Sakusa kicks his foot against a volleyball, sending it striding towards the back door. With unsurety, he adds, “I wasn’t aware Coach added ‘punching the wall’ as an exercise of ours.” 

Atsumu pays no mind to his mild scolding and thickly-veiled advice. “Only for the best of the best, Omi-kun.” There is no lilt of forced humor in his exhale. 

They’re not strangers. Sakusa wishes it so, but they’re not. He knows Atsumu fights more than he breathes, either with himself or with others, and he knows that his fatal flaw is that damned stubbornness of his. He knows Atsumu relies on his brother more than he lets on, and had Sakusa not entered the gym, Atsumu would have tortured himself to the point where he would be unable to move his wrist, because that is who he is: he doesn’t let his own limits stop him. 

They’re not acquaintances. They don’t nod in acknowledgement when seeing each other in the locker rooms, not through discussing strategies against potential opponents. A congratulations is difficult to come by for the two when either makes an excellent score, and they never pause to ask pleasantries or even a simple, “How was your day?” Their prior interactions have been sorely limited to their former yearly All Japan Youth Training Camp invites and face-offs at Nationals. 

They’re not friends. During their first training camp, Atsumu had sent a set that was slightly too high for him, and Sakusa all but refused to hit it. He doesn’t recall why he ignored the setter and asked a member from Shiratorizawa to set for him instead, but he did. He’s never actually hit a set from Atsumu, instead simply dealt with his flimsy one-handed receives as he struggles with adjusting to his cast. They’re certainly not on the same level of friendship as Bokuto and Hinata are to Atsumu. They’re… teammates, he supposes, but then again, they haven’t even worked together, so can the term still be applied?

Keepin all this in mind, Sakusa decides that he has no obligation to the mess before him. There’s dried blood on Atsumu’s hand, swollen and heavy eyes from wandering the wooden floor, and Sakusa’s dizzy from morning practice and lack of food. He leaves his forgotten water bottle by the bench, the very reason for why he came back after taking a shower, reasoning that he’ll get it tomorrow. He turns on his heel and throws an, “I’m telling Coach about this,” before completely allowing the door to shut behind him. 

The next day, he arrives at the locker room with a bruised cheek, a token gift from Atsumu, thoughtfully handed to him the moment he stepped inside the facility. Bokuto and Hinata applaud him for standing his ground “against an elderly racist man” at the train station.

* * *

It certainly takes some adjusting to, but soon everyone is accustomed to Sakusa’s careful habits. He tends to avoid the direct skin-to-skin contact his teammates so casually offer, congratulatory slaps after a particularly well receive and victorious fist bumps - and of course Bokuto’s obligatory claps and cries of encouragement - and no one makes any move to change that. They accept it with confused smiles and move on, sometimes even going as far as to make the locker room slightly neater than they would normally leave it. He appreciates it, really - because he doesn’ lack that many social cues - but has the trouble of forcing the words out of him, so he nods his  _ thanks _ instead and plays his best. 

Despite his injury, Atsumu shows up to practice every morning and evening, slowly practicing one-handed float-serves. Meian’s forbidden him from jumping or so much as picking one foot off the ground - ever since that incident from when Hinata launched himself onto Atsumu’s back - but Atsumu tries to get away with it. Bokuto always calls him out on it, and since he can’t curse at the disappointed looks on Meian’s face, he infuriates Sakusa instead. 

Atsumu bounds over to the spiker with a shit-eating grin, immediately running his mouth about what he last had for breakfast, what movies he watched rather than getting the recommended eight hours of sleep, his theories for why be believes “‘Samu and Sunarin are getting at it,” and just about anything his pointless existence can think of. He constantly pushes Sakusa’s boundaries, holding up fists in hopes for one back, always ending up having to bump his own knuckles together for a childish smile to grow on his face. Sakusa wonders just how Atsumu ever became one of Japan’s top setters. 

He points out the non-existent flaws in Sakusa’s form, shouting, “JUMP HIGHER, OMI-OMI, IT’LL HELP WITH YER POSTURE AND SERVES!” He follows with, “Come on, Omi-Omi, ya’ can hit stronger cross-shots!” or “Ain’t that a lousy block Omi-Omi, one more!”

He tries to restrain himself from murdering Asumu every time he hears that abominable nickname. As if Bokuto’s “Omi-kun” wasn’t terrible enough - he doesn’t mind Hinata’s “Omi-san” because it turns out it’s nearly impossible to be irritated at Hinata for anything unless you’re Kageyama-kun - but now he has to deal with a derisive, worse one: Omi-Omi. 

Atsumu’s quick to reply to his  _ shut the fuck up, miya _ with, “When’ll ya’ call me by my real name?” 

Sakusa glares at him. “Miya is your real name, dumbass.” Must he explain what is already listed on his birth certificate? 

“No, Atsumu is. We can’t have ya’ thinkin’ of my brother while I’m on the court next to ya’.” He says it so profoundly, so perfectly and assuredly, as if no one could and should ever imagine his place anywhere else but next to Sakusa. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you really think that whenever I hear your voice, I imagine your brother’s onigiris?” Atsumu stammers, and Sakusa continues, “Because yes, I do imagine Osamu-san’s cooking and how it is ten times better than your presence. I also imagine how wonderful having Osamu-san next to me would be. He  _ is _ a skilled player, after all.” 

Sakusa gets hit with two volleyballs to the back of his head, but Atsumu gets hit five times and receives a scolding from both Coach Foster and Meian, so he takes it as a win.

* * *

It doesn’t matter where he is, someone, without fail, will ask him why he plays volleyball when he’s so conscious of germs and diseases, and “a germaphobe.” 

He consistently reiterates, “I am not a germaphobe” because he isn't. He isn’t frightened of germs at all, but he  _ dislikes _ them. People actively try to avoid what they dislike, and as such, he does his best to steer clear and protect himself from germs. If he wears a facemask outside daily and uses hand sanitizer frequently, it’s to appease his personal preferences, not because of some underlying fear. 

He admits that sometimes, the annoyance of numerous people touching the same ball irks him, but volleyball is a sport where the objective is to get the ball away from you. It’s his job to touch the ball for a second, two seconds at most, and pass it as accurately as he can to either his teammates or past the blockers in front of him. The fast-pace of the game exhilarates him, adrenaline rushing through his veins with each successful slam of the ball on the opposing side of the net. He may not love it as much as Asumu does, or Bokuto or Hinata, but in his own way, he does enjoy it; it’s enough for him. 

It’s his first match as a professional athlete against the Tachibana Red Falcons, and despite their starting setter on the bench, their team is on fire. Even Sakusa can say as much, and he - unfortunately - doesn’t have as much pride in them as the rest of his teammates. Their defense and offense is unbreakable, and he can clearly see why the MSBY Black Jackals is a highly-praised team; it’s only been a few weeks of him as a member, yet the others have blended their styles to match his and each others’ to seamlessly build a warrior machine. Ojiro Aran eyes him from his place a meter away, smiles curling to feral grins. They narrowly win their three sets, and though no one touches him in congratulations or shakes his hand out of friendly sportsmanship, his skin is electrified. He loves this feeling of winning, of showing definite proof that his hard work has amounted to something incredible. 

Atsumu shuffles beside him with his cast on, clad in their uniform to show support. He stands a good meter away from Sakusa, who’s seated on the bench and drinking the water their manager had handed to them. 

“Let’s go out for dinner, Omi-Omi.”

Sakusa sets the bottle down and stretches his wrists, gaze latched onto the floor. “Bokuto-san already mentioned that the team is going out, but I’m passing.” 

“Why?”

“Not interested. I’m tired.” He really is. Usually, he’s not one to be nervous about an upcoming game, but last night, he had barely gotten sleep due to his restless nerves about today’s match. He’s grateful he played well-enough, though Hinata’s receives were much more admirable than his. He supposes he should work on those with Inunaki-san…

“Doesn’t matter,” Atsumu states impassively. “Get dinner with me.” 

“You weren’t even playing, Miya. Do you even deserve dinner?”

Atsumu sends him a glare before shrugging nonchalantly. He shoves his free hand in his pocket, other arm dangling uselessly at his side. “Jeez, Omi-Omi, it’s because of my constant corrections in yer form that ya’ played so well.” 

His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I played well?”

“NO-” and Atsumu’s swift, thundering exclaim has heads turning in their direction, so Sakusa snorts and looks away from Atsumu; the setter clears throat, embarrassed. “No, no, ya’ sucked, really. Ya’ messed up in yer, uh sixth serve. Yep.”

Sakusa stands up and starts toward their locker room, but Atsumu follows, muttering something about how  _ ya’ didn’t jump right, Omi-kun, ya’ coulda’ knocked out yer head and it’s a real shame ya’ didn’t, but try better next time, ‘kay? Well ‘nyway, where do ya’ wanna’ go for dinner? Ya’ can pay if ya’ like, I don’t mind-  _

“Miya, when did I agree to go to dinner with you?” he interrupts, breaking Atsumu’s chatter. He doesn’t get why all of a sudden Atsumu wants to have dinner with him. Just a few hours ago could they not wait together in silence for Coach Foster to share the news about their next match, both opting to throw insults (and perhaps a volleyball or two) at one another. Somewhere behind them, Bokuto and Hinata are discussing the advantages of drinking pineapple juice with black pepper versus sparkling soda with apple vinegar. Where was Akaashi-san when you needed him?

Atsumu  _ hmphs. _ “Ya’ didn’t, but it doesn’t matter, so where we goin’?”

They get to the locker room, and he makes his way towards his, grateful that his first game was in his home court rather than a city away. He glances at Atsumu, who’s staring back at him with an expression somewhere in between irritated and delighted. How that makes sense, he doesn’t know; his university classes did not teach him to be fluent in reading the many facial expressions of Miya Atsumu. 

“We’re not going anywhere. You can go with Bokuto-san and Hinata-kun to dinner instead. I’m going home.” 

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu says exasperatedly, “don’t be like that. We’re goin’, now choose a place.” 

“Tsum-Tsum,” Bokuto interrupts with a mock-gasp, who along with Hinata caught up to them, “Please don’t go killing Omi-kun right after such a good match. Save it for tomorrow, at least! Keiji always says it’s better to commit murders in the rain anyway.”

The three of them simply stare at him. Even Hinata doesn’t have a reply for that. 

“...Right, Bokkun… I’ll text Keiji-kun if I need any more tips,” Atsumu responds hesitantly, and Bokuto, satisfied, turns around to tell Hinata a story about him and Akaashi-san going to the zoo. Atsumu continues under his breath, loud enough for Sakusa to laugh at, “And maybe I’ll refer Keiji-kun to a psychiatrist. Being with Bokkun for so long, I completely understand why he would need to know specifics to murders.” 

At the end, Sakusa begrudgingly chooses a cafe his cousin had once taken him to that serves boba tea. If he has to angrily sip his lavender-and-brown-sugar tea while Atsumu complains about the chunks of mango the “crazy red-head with weird fingers” added in as payback for Atsumu calling “Hisoka-lookin’,” then no one has to know but him and Atsumu - and probably the Hisoka-looking redhead.

* * *

It starts with a toss of a ball, despite how much he wishes it doesn’t. 

(Unfortunately for him, his wishes are not stronger than fate.) 

He scowls. This isn’t  _ fate. _

Nonetheless, Sakusa finally gets the opportunity to play with Atsumu a month later, but it’s not in the comforts of the MSBY gymnasium. They’re tied 11-11 in the fifth set against the EJP Raijin, and the stakes are mounting higher than ever. Hinata’s been blocked over a dozen times by now, and Bokuto’s not far behind; Inunaki’s receives and Sakusa’s service aces are the two things keeping the scoreboard alive for them. He hastily attempts to spike a cross-shot, but their middle blocker Suna is already there, his prior second-delay causing him a point. They rotate once again, and Sakusa’s in the front-row, hands on his knees to take a breath of air. He doesn’t want to think about the 11-12, or how this could be his first professional loss. 

“Jeez, Omi-Omi, quit glarin’ at them,” he hears someone say, and he straightens to look at Atsumu stretching his arms and grinning murderously. He’s on the court with no cast in sight; does Coach think he’ll change their situation? “I’m here, so let’s beat ‘em.” 

Sakusa frowns, but nods nonetheless “Don’t screw up, Miya, and stop your penchant glares at their middle blocker.” 

Atsumu breaks his staring contest with Suna to smirk at Sakusa. “Can’t help myself. I’m excited to see Sunarin get pissed off at losing to me.” He catches the ball Adriah sends to him, and positions for a serve; Sakusa brings his hands up to cover the back of his head, just to irritate Atsumu. The setter jumps up, and despite it being a  _ good _ serve, Motoyo retrieves and sends it back. A spike later, it’s 11-13. 

“Yes, Miya, I see that your presence has significantly aided the team,” Sakusa mutters as Suna begins to serve. Atsumu sends him a flurry of vexed looks, yet they’re quick to return their attention to the ball. It’s a clean send to Inunaki, who means to pass it to Meian by the looks of it, but instead, Atsumu ends up crouching down to set it. 

“OMI-KUN,” he shouts, ignoring Bokuto’s shout of, “HERE, ‘TSUMU!” 

Sakusa gives the latter no mind: he jumps and Atsumu sets it in a way that only the word  _ perfect _ can be used to describe it. Sakusa knows that Atsumu’s been watching him through their practices, memorizing his preferences and angles for setting, and it- it works. When he’s at his highest point, the ball is right there to meet him, palm slamming against the rough exterior to meet the floor so incredibly quickly that Sakusa himself misses it. He hears a cry of, “NICE ONE, SAKUSA!” but his thoughts are latched onto his reddened fingers.

_ Oh. This is what Atsumu’s sets feel like. _

(They lose the match against EJP Raijin, yet Sakusa continues to play that one moment on repeat in his mind, the feel of the ball in his palm so  _ perfectly _ ; oh, he thinks he falls in love with volleyball once again. He hears a drum of,  _ why him why him why him _ .

Disheartened by the outcome, Bokuto hitches a ride to Tokyo, but Hinata pesters Sakusa and Atsumu into joining him at an izakaya. Two hours later, a sleepy-eyed Kageyama walks in and yanks Hinata from the collar, muttering “Shoyo, you  _ dumbass, _ ” and bowing apologetically to Atsumu’s drunken, “Stupid Tobio-kun, it’s no fair, why do  _ you _ get to take Shoyo home?” 

Sakusa merely drowns his glass and Hinata’s forgotten one.)

* * *

He doesn’t know what compels him to go knocking on Atsumu’s dorm room at 2:33 in the morning. A few moments later, he hears the rustling of fabric and a low voice saying,  _ “‘Samu, you dick, get me the fuck out of here now, there are ghosts here, believe me.” _ It’s cold, he’s cold, and the heating must have broken down a few hours ago, yet Atsumu opens the door with a beige blanket held tightly against his shoulders with a fist, and a paperback manual of  _ how to build a toaster _ in his other hand. 

Atsumu blinks at him. “Omi-kun, I- hi. Ya’, uh, ya’ need somethin’?” 

“I dislike pumpkin pie,” is the reasoning Sakusa offers for turning up at his doorstep unannounced. As evidence, he holds up a round container, the transparent indicating that yes, there is indeed a pumpkin pie inside. 

“Okay? Nice to know I should definitely get ya’ that for yer birthday then,” he replies, because as it seems, his asshole-ry has no off-switch, even at such an ungodly hour. 

“I hate pumpkin pie,” Sakusa repeats. 

“Ya’ve established that, Omi-Omi, can I go back to sleep now?”

“It’s ‘may I,’” he snaps back on reflex, then with a quick glance at Atsumu’s model-like appearance - basketball shorts and an onigiri graphic tee - he retreats back. “Come on.”

Atsumu watches him walk away. Ever intelligent, he stutters out a, “What?”

“Come on now.” He takes them through the hallway and into the communal kitchen. He turns on the lights, and as he scours for two spoons, Atsumu attempts to fix his hair, but gives up when he sees his mess of a bed-hair in a passing mirror. He runs the spoons under some warm water before taking a seat on the kitchen island opposing Atsumu, and opens the container. 

“I hate pumpkin pie-” and Atsumu rolls his eyes “-but a nice lady at the store gave it to me when I was out shopping.” Again, he truly doesn’t know what compels him to explain all of this to the setter. “I’m leaving in a few hours, so it would only get spoiled if I kept it in the drive, which is why we’re eating this now.” To emphasize his point, he spoons some of the pie and eats it, grimacing. 

Atsumu nods and takes a bite of the pie, not entirely despising pumpkin but not one of his favorites either. “Ya’ shoulda’ woken up Shoyo-kun and Bokkun then. They love pumpkins.” If their addictions to pumpkin-spiced lattes were any indication. 

“As I would ever willingly wake up those two demons at this hour,” Sakusa scoffs. “The entire block would be on our case then.”

Atsumu tries to stifle a laugh, but fails miserably. “Where ya’ goin’?”

“To visit Motoya. My mother said it was either visit my siblings or my cousin, and he’s the closest, unfortunately.” 

“‘Samu’s visiting Sunarin at EJP too, for the holidays. Punch him for me, will ya’?”

“I’ll be sure to give him nothing but respect then,” Sakusa replies wryly.

* * *

It’s sometime later that Sakusa realizes just how much time he and Atsumu spend together despite claiming to despise one another. It’s also at this time that he realized just how much of his presence Atsumu actively tries to seek. 

At the moment, however, Hinata runs into the hotel lobby where the rest of the team is waiting for the bus to go back to Osaka, a necklace with a ‘T’ charm swinging wildly across his chest. (He previously tried to pass it off as the ‘T’ from his last name, but no one was stupid enough to believe that. How Kageyama-kun nailed that, Sakusa doesn’t know… nor does he want to, he decides after some thought.) 

Bokuto eyes his prodigy from next to Atsumu on the couch, then bounces up and asks, “Whatcha’ got there, Shoyo?”

Hinata proudly holds up an old camera, excitedly claiming, “It’s from the 1960s, Bokuto-san! Look, look - we have to take pictures with it!” 

While Atsumu ducks from Bokuto’s wide arms, Inunaki pries the camera from Atsumu’s grasp and motions for him to come closer to Sakusa, pulling Atsumu and Bokuto with him. Sakusa doesn’t understand why he must be in the picture, or why they need to take it where he is standing comfortably against the wall, yet he makes no complaint of it. Bokuto leans on his side next to Sakusa, while Atsumu and Hinata crouch at the floor, throwing up peace-signs and flicking out their tongues. Why Hinata chose the floor when he’s just as short as it… Sakusa doesn’t know; again, he doesn’t want to know. 

“Wow, Omi-san, you look so cool!” Hinata comments when he gets a look at the photo, and Bokuto sends him a thumbs-up; Atsumu stays oddly quiet. 

“...Thank you,” he replies gruffly, because damn him, he will not be rude to  _ Hinata-kun. _

With a smile, Hinata tugs on Atsumu’s arm, pulling him towards the revolving doors. “Atsumu-san, come on, we need to get on the bus.” 

The setter pulls away from Hinata, albeit gently and calmly. He jerks a thumb in Sakusa’s direction, a fox-shitting grin growing on his face. “That’s okay, I’ll ride Omi-kun.” A pause. Bokuto raises his eyebrows. Atsumu screeches. “I MEANT I’LL RIDE  _ WITH _ OMI-KUN, SHIT, I DIDN’T MEAN THAT, IT JUST CAME OUT, SHUT UP, SHOYO-”

Hinata, through his boundless giggles, attempts to console Atsumu while Bokuto laughs breathily, slapping Atsumu’s back with a drum of, “GOOD ONE, TSUM-TSUM!”

Sakusa face-palms. He hadn’t asked to be born.

* * *

Atsumu, even after his mortifying mishap, does follow Sakusa out to his car, dropping his duffel bag into the trunk as if he owned the car. He wouldn’t tell Hinata his reasons for ditching the bus no matter how much the spiker pestered him, eventually having to be pulled off by a winking Bokuto in order to catch the bus. Sakusa has always driven to and from their games alone, following their black and gold bus in his own car. He does it to avoid germs; unfortunately for him, there’s a fake-blond one standing right outside his passenger-side door, stretching like he’s going to go on a five-kilometer run rather than a four-hour car ride, and Sakusa is about to let it in. 

...He doesn’t  _ have _ to, right? Nowhere on his contract did he say that he couldn’t leave his teammate stranded at a hotel in Okinawa, right? Right. 

He unlocks his own door and slides in, trying to block out Atsumu’s rampant knocks against his window before he gives in. What truly awful deed did he commit in his past life to receive this torture? 

Atsumu steps inside the car and pointedly makes a show of slamming the car door with more force than needed. Once on the highway, he reaches for the radio control, and Sakusa slaps his hand away. 

“No.”

Silently yet with a grin, Atsumu turns the radio on. 

Sakusa doesn’t turn it off.

* * *

Two hours into the drive, it’s almost sunset, and the dipping sunlight catches onto Atsumu, casting a hazy glow on his skin and hair as the two stand outside in the warm weather, filling the petroleum tank at a station off the highway. Atsumu’s leaning against the car-door, humming a foriegn song underneath his breath while typing away at something on his phone, and Sakusa watches as he blows out an orange bubble out of the gum he purchased with Sakusa’s card. He tilts the phone’s camera towards Sakusa and snaps a picture before the spiker can even ask  _ what are you doing, you idiot _ then taps at his screen with a satisfied smirk. 

Objectively, with that smile, the angel-like gold of his hair, and the rose cheeks from having them pressed against a window, Atsumu looks… good. 

“Why did you do that?”

“‘Samu.” That doesn’t answer much at all. 

Sakusa sort of wants to get rid of that damned smirk, so he fists his palms and wills their recklessness to go away. Perhaps the heat is finally getting to him; maybe not, for when Atsumu locks his phone and slides it into his pocket, eyes meeting Sakusa’s with nothing but content and joy brimmed to the top, he feels that he needs to do something, anything,  _ anything _ to cause this rush of heat in his chest to disappear. 

“Ya’ good, Omi-Omi? Yer glarin’ so hard, I think I might burst into flames here.” 

Sakusa is the one who is going to burst into flames because,  _ oh, _ he lifts a finger to unhook his facemask, takes a step closer to Asumu, and grasps the hem of his sweatshirt, warmth emanating from their proximity. He wants to, he doesn’t want to, he wants to, because this is  _ Atsumu _ , the golden boy, who inhales sharply yet remains still like a statue. He’s warm, so warm, and he presses his lips to the setter’s swiftly, just as his shots are for volleyball. 

He tastes like his shitty mango gum and smells like his  _ good _ cologne, the one Sakusa couldn’t stop smelling the one time Atsumu sprayed it in their locker room. It’s not fair how long he’s wanted to kiss him. He feels dizzy, like he does after an especially rewarding and successful win, but he doesn’t stop, because the high is always worth it. He doesn’t know when he fell for the bastard in front of him, only that he did, and now he’s finally done something about it, and he never wants the rush to end. 

They pull apart, just enough to still let Atsumu’s labored breathing ghost over his lips, his fingers somehow in Sakusa’s hair. 

“Shit,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering open with flushed cheeks. 

“What?” Sakusa tries to gain his composure, but fails, because damn, Atsumu’s good at kissing. A breeze whisks past them, and he only tightens his grip on Atsumu’s sweater, an absurd fear of this  _ breaking _ flooding over him. 

“I- I swallowed the gum I was chewing.” 

“Why are you thinking about bubblegum right after I’ve kissed you?” 

Atsumu’s fingers loosen their grasp. “Uh, shit for that too, but- ‘Samu told me that if you swallow gum, it gets stuck in your lungs. I’m gonna’ die, Omi-kun, and I’ve only  _ just _ kissed ya’, this is the worst day eve-”

Great going, Kiyoomi. This is the man you’ve chosen to- to… he can’t say it. 

“How would something you swallow end up in your lungs?” 

Atsumu blinks, then his eyes widen comically. “Oh.”

He exhales, pinching Atsumu’s hip bone. Why, why,  _ why- _ He doesn’t understand why, yet he wants to; he wishes to know, and hopes that for once, this wish is strong enough to come true. “Why the fuck are you like this, Atsumu?”

Atsumu laughs, unperturbed by the fact that Sakusa’s insulted him, and brings his lips to Sakusa’s cheek to place a fluttering kiss there. “Can we do that again?”

“No.”

It’s a futile lie at best, and they both know it. 

(When they tell the team, Inunaki, Meian, and Adriah hand 2,000 yen each to Hinata and Bokuto, who in turn then give it to Osamu; Atsumu and Sakusa aim service aces at all six of them.)


End file.
